Childhood, Interrupted
by UnpublishedWriter
Summary: A look at why Berg Katse is Lord of Galactor, not Hontwarl's version of John Gacy. Warning: violence, implied sexual assault. All chapters revised.
1. Chapter 1

**Childhood, Interrupted**

Chapter One

* * *

_In which the one who will become Berg Katse has the most nearly normal year of life, until it isn't normal._

_

* * *

_

Sean Treil touched his face, wincing as he found bruises. He'd misread the situation on the playground. Boys were different from girls in some important ways. His parents should have put him in pre-school. Then he would have known that St. Louis Academy was not typical.

"You'll only make it hurt more, doing that."

He jerked his head around. Not far away stood a black-haired, grey-eyed girl he recognized from class. Helen – something. Geary. "What's it to you?" _Ow._

"You need some ice on those," she said. "Mr. Paredes will let us have some."

Stupefied by her attention, he stood until she grabbed his arm and gave an impatient tug. He caught up to her, and didn't think to shake loose from her grasp.

Mr. Paredes ran a small shop frequented by local children and adults. When he saw Sean's bruises, he wrapped ice cubes in a clean towel and handed it over. "Not too much time on any one place," he advised.

"Thank you, sir." It paid to be polite. He'd learned that when he was a girl at the Academy. Manners gave you an advantage when dealing with adults. "My name is Sean."

"Pleased to meet you, Sean. I see you've met the prettiest girl in town."

Why were adults so silly around children?

Helen bought flavored ices for them both and they sat outside on a bench. The cold felt good on his swollen lip and face.

_Why are you being nice to me? What's your angle?_

At school, she'd been surrounded by boys and girls who seemed to like her. When the boys presented her with frogs and bugs, she didn't squeal and flinch away, but held the gifts high and cheered them on. They blushed and mumbled and ran off to find more prizes. There were better boys than he for her to befriend. Better girls, too.

Girls were hard to figure out, even as Sían. There was a secret language about them. They could smile in your face and swear eternal friendship, then turn on you in half a heartbeat. _I must learn how to read them._

"Are you going to get into trouble?" she asked.

"About what?"

"Your face. Adults don't like kids fighting."

"No, I won't." _They don't care._

Apparently sensing that she'd asked the wrong thing, she didn't pry.

He used the ice pack until it melted to nearly nothing, and returned the towel to Mr. Paredes with thanks.

"I have to get home," Helen said. "Mom always wants to know about my first day at school."

_Ask to walk her home. That's what boys do for girls._ "May I walk you home?"

"Thank you, Sean, you may."

Imitating a movie he'd seen, he offered his arm.

As they walked, he avoided analyzing his feelings. He wanted to enjoy this for as long as it would last: her arm in his, the occasional touch of her other hand, the return of the friendly sparkle.

At the entrance to her building, he offered to repay her for the ice treat. She refused. "You can buy for us tomorrow. Thank you for walking me home."

"You're welcome." A warm glow formed in his stomach.

* * *

He had taken the long way home, to keep the warmth as long as possible. It was stupid, she could turn out to be a bitch like the ones at school, he might be setting himself up for disappointment, but he could not do anything else. She'd been nice to him.

All trace fled as he unlocked the apartment door. His parents were home.

His mother turned a loveless gaze on him. "What happened to you?"

"He got the shit beat out of him, Siobhan." His father glared at him. "You aren't a girl anymore. Act like it."

Both smelled of alcohol.

"Sure." He held up his book bag. "I have homework."

* * *

He went to school. The boys who had beaten him waited for the other shoe to drop.

There had been plenty of witnesses to the beating, so no-one called child welfare services on him. It was no crime for parents to think their children needed to 'toughen up' and not complain to school authorities about bullying. So, all the boys got was a talking-to by the headmaster.

Class seating arrangements kept Helen from him. At lunch, she sat beside him. "I had a nice time - I mean, except for you getting beat up - yesterday," she said, after making certain no-one could hear them.

"So did I."

Today, she spent time with him.

After school, he bought the flavored ices for them, and walked her home.

* * *

She made his life bearable. During the school day, he looked for her. At night, he held their time together close to his heart.

None of which kept him from watching his classmates. Everyone belonged to at least one little group within the mass of students, or even to several in one way or another, and each group had its rules. If he knew them, he'd know what to do.

Helen tried to bring him into her circle. There were trees to climb, streams to wade, and old buildings to explore. Mr. Paredes and other shopkeepers dispensed the fuel of childhood. At times, he could almost forget Sían, his female self.

But he knew he could never escape what he was, and this formed a barrier not even Helen could breach. All he could do was try to disguise that wall.

* * *

Three weeks into the term, she said, "I need some help with geometry."

"Oh? Mr. Jackson's willing to help…."

"Don't." Mischief danced in her eyes. "You aren't dumb. You're smart."

He snorted.

"I don't know why you're pretending, but you aren't dumb. You're bored because you know it already." She chuckled. "Can you meet me at the factory?"

"Okay."

"Hey, you two," the PE teacher said, "get on the field. We have a game."

* * *

'The factory' was long abandoned. When they'd first broken in, he'd been so fascinated by the remaining machinery that he had ignored Helen and the others.

She sat on a stone wall, her books open. Geometry. "I always think I'm about to get it, and then I don't."

"Show me where you're having trouble." He saw it immediately. She'd never figure it out if he simply showed her, and she would resent him for doing that.

A few nudges from him, and she lit up. "I get it. Thanks." To his surprise, she threw an arm around his neck and squeezed.

Confused by the sudden rush of feelings, he broke away and backed off a safe distance.

"Sean?"

"Why do you like me?" _Tell me the truth. Tell me._ "Why are you nice to me?"

Plainly, she'd never thought about it, because it took her a long time to answer. "You're different from the other kids. I can't say how. I don't know the words. They think you're sort of weird, but I don't." He didn't back away as she approached. "I think you're nice."

"No, I'm not. I'm not nice. I'm a freak. The other kids don't play with you so much anymore because of me." That pleased, yet appalled, him.

"It'll take time for them to get to know you. That's what Mom says. You aren't like me. You're like - like a puzzle box. Do you know what those are?"

"N-no."

"Puzzle boxes look like regular boxes, but you have to find the secret lock to open them." She touched his cheek. "That's you. There's more inside than I can see."

The universe contracted. For a brief, breathless eternity, he and Helen were the only creatures in existence.

"Hey, you kids."

They jumped, looked around to see the foot patrol officer sauntering towards them. "Yes, sir?"

With the right mix of sternness and kindness, the cop explained, "This property is off-limits for a reason. Lots of dangerous stuff around." He smiled. "I know it's near-irresistible, but you can't play here. Go on home."

* * *

After he left her at her building, Helen thought about that afternoon. Why had he asked why she liked him? It was obvious to her. Should have been obvious to anyone. He was a nice boy. Why had he stared at her that way? It scared her a bit.

* * *

That night, as his parents slept off their binge, he looked up puzzle boxes on the Internet. For the next several hours, he marveled at the ingenuity and craftsmanship of those who made these puzzles. Not mere boxes with secret latches: true puzzles, with hidden compartments, cunningly joined panels showing no seams, not even a clue how to begin.

* * *

Helen was home sick. The day, begun with a promise of warmth, turned chill even with the sun full in the sky. Sean sat by himself, watching the other students.

Two months since the beating. Two months since meeting her.

The girls at St. Louis had seemed such mysteries. Now he understood that wasn't true. _I didn't have any experience._

His two personae had slightly different personalities, whether because they were different sexes or from some other reason he didn't know. The result was that when Sean remembered Sían's experiences, he felt as if he looked into another's mind. It was the same when Sían remembered Sean's experiences.

Now he had everyone in his grade-level sorted out. The younger and older children were harder to place, since the grades rarely mingled except at the beginning and end of the day.

An engine changed gears, _chuffed_ loudly. Idly curious, he redirected his attention.

A large, battered garbage truck with lifting arms approached the huge trash containers at the edge of the playground. The arms rose from their positions either side of the truck, up, over, and down. Then the most amazing thing happened.

Entranced, he watched the huge, curved arms and the lifting prongs adjust almost as if they were flesh and blood instead of metal. A lift here, a lowering there, and the prongs slid into the sleeves on the container. The lift motor changed frequency and the arms heaved the container up and over, upside-down over the back of the truck. The arms shook the container the way a person might shake a box, then up and over to place the container on the ground. As a final touch, the mechanical arms hooked the lid and lifted it to fall shut.

_Father fixes things like that. When he isn't drunk._

Tools didn't care if you were a girl or a boy. There were machines to lift and pull, so even a woman could work with heavy things.

* * *

He knocked shyly on the apartment door. The woman who opened it looked sort of like Helen, except her hair was dark brown and her eyes were hazel. "Yes?"

Too late now. "I'm Sean, a friend of Helen's. From school. I, uh, brought her homework assignment."

"_You're_ the mystery man in her life. Come in."

What was it about adults? He'd caught a hint of patronizing in her tone. "Thank you. How is she?"

"She's feeling much better. Just a bit of flu. I'll tell her you're here."

He looked around.

Nice place. Much nicer than the two-bedroom he shared with his parents. None of the Geary family's furniture came from yard sales or second-hand stores.

"She'll see you, now."

There was an actual hallway to her bedroom.

Steeling himself for a distressingly pink, fluffy bedroom, he stepped through the door.

No pink. A few ruffles, mostly on the curtains and bedspread, which had a nice floral pattern. The walls were painted a nice hue of blue-green, decorated with a few magazine pictures.

"Hey, I'm over here."

Helen was propped against the headboard of her bed, a lap-table with laptop on her knees, and a box of nasal tissue ready to hand. She was pale, but sparkled at the sight of him.

"I've never been in a girl's room." _Except when I was the girl._

"Don't worry, I _do_ have stuffed animals." She held up a fluffy stuffed cat. "Thanks for coming."

"I missed you. It's cold outside without you." He pulled the paper from his bag. "Our homework."

"I missed you, too. Come over here. I'm not contagious."

They talked of small things, then he described, with pantomime, the way the truck emptied the bin. At her big grin, he asked, "What is it?"

"You should see your face. You're lit up like the sun. I like it."

"You do?" Really?" All this time, and he still could not quite believe she liked him, period.

"Really."

He stayed until Helen's mother announced dinner.

* * *

Phys. Ed. class:

"Oh, hell, Treil and Geary are on the same team."

"No fair! They _always_ win."

Those, and similar complaints, whirled around the gym.

Basketball had arrived in Hontwarl in the late 20th Century, following Amerisian football and baseball. Now, every school had a court. Unlike many other sports, it could be played indoors or outdoors, making it perfect for the long Hontwarl winters. Because it, like soccer, relied mostly on skill, physical coordination and endurance, it was also perfect for mixed teams of pre-pubescent children.

Trials of skill, coordination and endurance were Treil's specialty in either sex. With Helen as team-mate, he could count on scoring more points than otherwise.

After the first game of Ameris-style football, he knew that tests of strength were not his forte. Even at this age, he knew he would never grow up to be a weight-lifter.

Of course, this _was_ second grade, so none of the children showed abnormal talent in any sport. They were as likely to get tangled in their own feet as to pass the ball.

Sean's classmates didn't mind his athletic skill, despite their complaints. Helen liked him, which was sufficient reason to cut him slack.

Some of their older siblings weren't as forgiving.

* * *

Sean watched his father work on the family car. With skill born of years of experience, the man changed belts, tightened bolts and adjusted the timing.

"Father."

He so rarely spoke to either parent that his father gaped blankly for several seconds. "Yes?"

"I want to fix things the way you do."

Emotions chased so quickly that he couldn't follow. He'd gotten very good at reading his parents. Mother couldn't stand him (or her). At times, it seemed Father wanted - something, before he turned away.

"I can do that sort of work as a girl or a boy. I dress right, nobody will ever know." Coveralls weren't designed to be pretty.

"Let me see what you can do. Follow my instructions."

Two hours later, his father wiped a smudge of grease from his cheek. "Not bad. I think, with some practice, that you could be - like me."

Kind words from his father. Sean quivered, but held his peace. _Don't ruin it._

_

* * *

_

Winter came, and the older people talked of how it used to snow in Hontwarl, rather than sleet or rain.

When cold rain or sleet caught them, he and Helen took advantage of the excuse to enter the abandoned buildings they liked to explore. Some were dangerous because of rotting floors or support members, others by reason of old equipment with parts that might still move. One was dangerous because the owners had left nearly-full cylinders and tanks of flammable gases (in violation of the law). He'd memorized the names on the cylinders the first time, and now knew the dangers if they should break a valve or light a match. Vagrants were another danger.

Other times, they hunkered down in the public library, reading above their grade-level, or at her apartment.

He could forget his secret, at least for a while.

* * *

Spring arrived, with plenty of rain, but not too much. The bordering mountains made something of a rain shadow, allowing the crops to thrive instead of drown.

"Hey, we need two more!" Bobby Dixon called, bouncing the black-and-white football off either knee.

Helen and Sean set down their books and joined the game. This day, it seemed he couldn't go wrong, as every kick sent the ball right where he wanted. When the game ended, Bobby suggested he try out for the team next year.

_Ah, hell._ "I can't, Bobby. We're moving at the end of the school year."

"Darn. Well, do it at your next school."

As they picked up their books, Helen asked, "When were you going to tell me?" Her lip quivered.

He looked at his feet. Right foot still on the right, left foot still on the left. "I – I couldn't - I wanted to - Damn. I don't want to go." _I don't want to change I don't want to move I want to stay here._

"Sean." She put her arms around him. "I didn't mean to scold."

"I know. But it's not all bad. I'll be back for fourth form."

"You will?"

"Yeah. It's weird, but that's how it is."

"And we have a whole month." The impish gleam reappeared. "I know where we can catch some _excellent_ frogs."

* * *

The change started a week later. Once, it took about a week to change sex. Now, it took roughly 24 hours, but in exchange, the child of Siobhan and Howard Treil spent three hours curled up on the floor in agony as genitalia changed.

Sían Treil uncurled, doing her best to relax. The worst was over, but her body wasn't finished.

Carefully, she got to her feet and climbed onto her bed. She looked at her hands.

At this age, clothed boys and girls could only be told apart by their clothing, hairstyles, or possessions. As long as she was careful, no-one would know.

Would Helen notice?

What was that feeling? _I wish I could talk to someone. Helen, maybe_ - What?

No. Impossible. She clamped her hands over her mouth to stop the giggles.

_I'm_ jealous. _Of myself._

Too funny. Sean had a friend, and she was jealous.

* * *

If Helen noticed any difference in her friend, she probably put it down to the impending move. Sían still worried that the girl would spot a difference that was difficult to explain. _I can't lose her._

"See you later," Helen said, sprinting up the stairs of her building.

The girl's effect on Sían was different from her effect on Sean. A well-timed word or look could make Sean tongue-tied and silly, or send him to the moon. He lit up inside at the thought of her. Sían lit up, but was never knocked for a loop. Perhaps, she thought, there really were differences between boys and girls beyond differing sexes.

"Hey, Treil."

Oh, damn.

Brad Dixon and three of his friends. "You're a hard guy to catch." He squared his shoulders. "You made Bobby look stupid."

"When?" Sean didn't share many classes with Bobby.

A hard shove that almost knocked her down. "That game. You _always_ do that. He has a chance to get out of here if nobody messes it up."

What? What did he mean?

"I'm gonna bust you up."

Sían feinted right, ran left, as fast as she could from this twelve-year-old psycho. She had a slight lead. If she could -

They tackled her.

* * *

Soapy water swirled the drain. The shower ran full blast, patting her head and back, her face when she turned to it. _Oh God oh God oh God make it go away it won't go away I can still feel it dirty so dirty no matter how hard I scrub I still feel_

Their disgusting hands on her body, their anger turned to shock when they discovered she was a girl, the way they pawed at her, disbelieving what their eyes and hands told them.

It could have been worse, she knew that but it didn't matter didn't matter because it was bad enough what they'd done the way Brad had poked her with his filthy fingers _Oh God I can still feel it make it go away - _

She huddled on the shower floor, shaking with tears she could not shed. She'd already cried her eyes dry.

_I want to talk to someone, I want a brother who isn't me, who can hold me and tell me everything will be all right…._

Cold anger came from somewhere. She let it fill her, freeze-burning her pain.

She dried off, dressed, and curled onto the bed. Cold. Fire. Temperatures so cold they burned. Dry ice becomes a gas as it warms.

Gas.

Her eyes opened. Hard sapphires gleamed as she smiled.

She had a whole year to perfect her plan.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

_The budding Lord of Galactor commits his first murder, and witnesses a second._

_

* * *

_

Sean arranged the trap alone. What could he tell anyone? Besides, when it worked, any allies could turn traitor and tell what they knew. _Shoot, I would, in their place._

_All_ the local kids, at one time or another, came to these buildings. Bums slept here. It was only a matter of time before there was an accident.

The really dangerous part for him was releasing the gas in the void below the factory floor. He had to put the camouflaging covering on one opening _before_ climbing down to crack the valves on the tanks. If his Sían persona had made an undetected mistake in her calculations, he would die.

When they left the property, the former owners had put unused cylinders of flammable gas in the bottom of the void. Canton law required such things to be properly and safely stored or disposed of. As the former owners had skipped the country, they thought they had little to fear.

Too much gas, and not enough air, meant no explosion. But Brad Dixon and his pack of jackals would be just as dead. Too little gas, and no explosion, and he would still have a problem. He could not simply leave them there, alive: someone might find and rescue them.

The void (a good word, picked up while Sían) had several circular openings, as if someone had buried the tank of a fuel truck. With a block-and-tackle he had rigged using old rope and pulleys, he removed one of the heavy covers (another was long gone). One opening he covered with sacking and rotten bits of wood. After re-arranging his rope and pulleys, he entered the void, cracked several valves, and climbed out. More camouflage, then he scattered the components of his tackle.

* * *

Three days earlier, he'd looked up Bobby Dixon and a few other old classmates. Their reactions were normal, which meant Brad and his gang hadn't said anything.

He'd brought Helen a frog. She gave him a beetle. Its mechanical-looking exoskeleton held his attention until she nudged him and mock-pouted.

Everything was ready. Now for Brad Dixon.

* * *

This was another danger. They were older, faster, and stronger than he was (although Sían had done well on the track team last year). Maybe they would be even more vicious, especially when they found out he was a boy again.

What could he say to make them follow him?

They were right where he'd hoped to find them. He decided to wing it. "Hi, Brad. Miss me?"

Brad's leer unnerved him. "Well, well, well. Back for some more? You liked it that much?"

Sean ran, thanking God for the track team and the hours spent mentally rehearsing for this day. Fear gave him a good lead, just far enough to keep Brad from seeing details, just close to enough to keep him interested.

He slithered through the crack in the wall, knowing his pursuers would use the door.

Inside, he had arranged the various rusting barrels, decomposing crates, broken pallets, and fallen debris to guide the gang to the concealed openings. Now for the bait.

He let out a girlish scream and fell to the floor, holding one ankle. When Brad and his followers burst in, he cried out and made a show of crawling away.

Had Brad Dixon possessed an ounce of subtlety, Sean's carefully-set trap would have failed utterly.

All four ran right onto it. They crossed the covered opening. That fast, they disappeared.

No shouting, just coughing and gagging. He took the igniter from hiding and set it.

He did not run wildly. Anyone who chanced to look onto the property would have seen no more than a local boy trotting away from an exploration.

Nor did he halt to watch what happened. If it worked, it worked.

The explosion was not as loud as he had expected.

Tension flowed from him like water from a bucket. He laughed, his eyes glinting like gemstones in winter.

* * *

Someone did see him leaving the site. The school doctor, on a walk, spotted him and crouched out of immediate sight. When he heard the explosion, he headed home to report. Now he understood why Leader X was interested in Sean Treil.

* * *

The accidental deaths of four boys in an abandoned building made the local news. Investigators found enough evidence to bring charges against the former property owners. Authorities now paid attention to existing laws about abandoned properties. Owners now had to guard and secure the buildings and grounds.

It was the talk of the school. Bobby was well-liked, Brad was a bully, and that was at least part of the awkwardness Bobby's classmates felt around him. There were also the social conventions of not insulting the dead and not taking pleasure in the misfortunes of others.

"I'm sort of glad he's dead," Helen said. Misinterpreting Sean's stunned expression, she continued, "I mean, he's not going to be around to beat people up and make trouble. But he's dead, and I don't feel bad about it."

"Are you okay?" _Did he do anything to you?_ Her pleasure surprised him: it didn't seem part of her character.

"I guess."

He searched her face for clues. "He was a jerk. Did he do anything to you?"

"No. Not really. I'd catch him looking at me. He had this strange look on his face. Made me nervous." She saw something in _his._ "What's wrong?"

"Oh, uh, he beat me up for winning that game. Said something about me wrecking Bobby's life."

"And you didn't tell me?"

_I couldn't._ "We were busy moving." That was a poor excuse.

"We could have done _something_ to get back at him. Between us, we could have figured out a really great revenge."

_Better than killing him?_ "I felt stupid. I mean, I got beat up again. Bookended my year." He hated lying to her. There were already too many secrets between them.

"That's okay." She stroked his hair. "I get it. I'd be embarrassed, too."

* * *

Helen didn't ask about his year away, and he didn't bring up the subject.

Just as well. St. Louis Academy kept the students segregated by sex. He could lie and invent some male classmates, but at some point he would make a mistake. There would be no covering that mistake with her. She was the smartest kid in class.

If only he knew whether or not he could share his secret with her. He could tell her some stories that would send her rolling with laughter. She could advise him what to do next year.

* * *

He signed for gymnastics this year. Besides track at St. Louis Academy, Sían had also been good at gymnastics. He had to keep in practice for next year. It didn't help his social standing with the other boys, but he didn't much care. After a few incidents, they remembered that they could never win a battle of wits with him.

* * *

"You sure about that?" his father asked, aiming the light up at the bottom of the car.

"Pretty sure." He touched the places where he saw welds and small distortions from an unmentioned accident. "They did a pretty good job disguising them."

"Ah, hell. Do you know why those are a bad thing?"

"They weaken the frame?"

"Yep. Once metal gets bent, it never quite goes back to its original shape. We could drive this car for years and never have a problem, or it could fold up during a minor fender-bender tomorrow."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not going to foist that thing on another person. Thing is, we just finished paying for it. We can't keep it, and we can't get a new one."

"We can't reinforce the welds and the bent spots?" _If I wasn't a freak, they could have bought a new car._

"Not with what we have. The effort we would have to put in, it'd be easier to get a new car."

* * *

St. Louis Academy had made Sean/Sían aware of social classes and distinctions. Most of the wealthy students were there because the school's academic reputation and strict discipline appealed to upper-middle-class and wealthy parents worried about the effects of that wealth on their children's characters. While most of the teachers tried to treat all the students equally, a few allowed wealth and connections to influence them.

The Academy's equalizing efforts were widespread, so it took real effort for the rich kids to get together for any length of time (even the ones who boarded). They compensated by ensuring that they had expensive haircuts, looking down on anyone they did not know, and spending too much money on their school supplies.

Sían had figured the girls out early in the last school year. Sean found that many of those same observations applied at _his_ school to both sexes. The rich kids were here so that their parents could boast of not having lost the 'common touch.'

Watch and learn. Why hate people when you can use them? Especially those to whom you are invisible.

So Sean knew he wasn't poor. Both parents worked, but keeping his dual nature a secret ate up the money.

* * *

He and Helen had resumed their friendship as if he'd only been gone a few days. No questions, even oblique ones, about where he'd been or what he'd done. As before, as always, she tried to let him into her circle.

Now that the old buildings were locked up and guarded, they spent more time rambling in the woods and foothills. When they weren't outside, or with other children, they were at the library or museums.

* * *

Three months into the school year, he and Helen were in Mr. Paredes's shop, browsing the selection of junk food. "Mom says they had real candy in her day," she said. "Real sugar. Real chocolate. I wonder what that tasted like?"

The rich kids had the real stuff. He was certain he could trick some off of them. Just a matter of finding the right words or leverage.

Two men, masked and carrying shotguns, pushed into the shop. One grabbed Paredes by the shirt and held the shotgun under his chin. "Empty the register, old man."

The two children hunkered down, hands clamped over each other's mouths.

Who robbed for money anymore? Sean wondered. The only cash he'd ever seen was what his father paid various people, such as the unlicensed doctors who treated him. Finance was almost all electronic these days.

Paredes pulled out the few bills as the other gunman emptied the coolers and yanked small packets off a rack.

"Is this all you got?" The first gunman shoved the shopkeeper against the register.

"Please, almost nobody uses cash money anymore."

"People have been coming in here _all day_. Where is it?"

"That's all there is!"

BLAM!

Sean pulled Helen's face to his chest a second too late. _She shouldn't see this is that what it looks like to die why did they do it oh my God._

Tainting the purity of his emotions came self-preservation: _I can't be found here. I can't be in the news. Someone might notice me and connect me to Sían._

Then: _I have to get Helen out of here._

The robbers fled.

She didn't resist as he pulled her out the back door and away from the shop.

Several blocks away, she turned a wide, shocked gaze to him. "They-they shot him."

He looked around, saw a low, decorative wall. "Come here."

"Shot him. Just like that." She buried her face in his shoulder. "Why, Sean?"

_Some people are just mean._

_ He never hurt anyone. He was nice to me._

She started to cry.

Helen _never_ cried. Except at silly movies.

_What should I do? What should I say? Should I say anything at all?_ What did you do with a crying girl?

Unsure what to do, he put his arms around her and let her cry.

The cold anger pricked at him.

* * *

The robbers raced away, shedding their masks and shoving their weapons into the sacks. There wasn't enough money to do shit, but they had condoms and beer, and a couple of hot women waiting for them.

They knocked on the hotel room door. Two women, identically dressed in bodysuits adorned with yellow stars on the breast, greeted them.

* * *

The shock of Mr. Paredes's murder had barely set in when police responded to a disturbance call at a hotel. Two dead men, one stabbed, the other shot, amid a litter of empty beer cans and bottles, used condoms, and other trash. Detectives drew the logical, and wrong, conclusion of a tryst gone bad.

* * *

Helen spent more time with Sean. The reason spoiled his pleasure in her company. Nobody knew they'd seen the murder. She needed to be with him. He understood the haunted look in her eyes and why she choked back tears at odd moments.

This wasn't right. Her eyes should sparkle with mischief and the joy of life. Sappy girl-movies should make her cry, not the memory of brains splattered on a wall.

He couldn't make the memories go away. He would make happy ones to crowd them out.

Autumn had begun, and there was enough of the season to paint the hills with every hue of yellow, red, gold, and green. He took her out to hunt the few frogs and lizards not yet hibernating or whatever they did when it was cold (and then they went to the library to find out). Long explorations in the woods. Visits to her apartment, where she pretended to help him with homework. Museum. Library.

Somehow, he never hit a wrong step. Gradually, the life returned to her eyes, then the mischief. He suffered through old movies for her.

One thing he could not return were her friends. Apparently, she could have either them, or him. Not both.

He could not decide how he felt about that.

As for how he felt about the murder: after the initial reaction, he found that only the senselessness of the act bothered him. It was unnecessary.

* * *

Through the year, he also kept one step ahead of the bullies. They could not beat him with words or wit, so they used their fists. Fortunately for him, and for Helen, the bullies tended to seek them out at school or on the routes to and from. Not a lot of planning went into the bullying, and they easily turned the tables on their would-be tormenters or avoided them. The most persistent was a thug named Hellmann, who never seemed to learn.

He even took a delayed revenge on the boys who had beaten him on the day he met Helen. With her help, he arranged a series of pranks and tricks that left them looking very foolish to their classmates (and without a clue as to the culprits).

* * *

"You'd better be careful," his father said. He was organizing his tools in their tiny garage.

"About what?"

"That girl. You're growing up. So is she. Eventually, she'll want - other things from you."

Other things?

"Right now, it's all right. I think."

His father had no idea how to say what he wanted to say. This had to be about puberty. "Father, I know I'll grow up. I hope the - changes - will stop."

"So do I. Maybe then we can be a family."

Sean waited.

"If it doesn't, then you have a problem I can't help you with. She's not bothered that you went away, is she?"

"She never asks about it."

"That will change. She'll want to know, and you can't put her off forever. What do you think will happen when she finds out?"

"I don't know." If only he could control the changes.

His father set down the tools he'd been fiddling with. "You might have to give her up. Now, before it goes any further. Before she starts to want more than friendship from you."

Give her up? He couldn't do that.

_Father's right: I should. It isn't fair to her. It won't be good for me._

_ I can't._

"I know, Sean. I do. But you can't afford to have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend."

_I can't take this._ Change the subject. "Why don't you teach me at home?"

_This_ was an easier topic. "This isn't Ameris, where you can sit and threaten to hold your breath until you pass out to get what you want. There has to be a compelling religious, medical or cultural reason for parents to home-school. I think you understand why we haven't applied."

"You're ashamed of me. Don't deny it."

"You scare us. And we don't want the attention."

"I don't want it, either."

After his child left the garage, Howard Treil put his head in his arms. _I want to love him - her - it._ Such a clever child, so talented with machines, more than he could or ever would be. So smart. Too smart. _I should be able to brag about my child, and I can't._

Siobhan loathed the child. After that first year, she'd become convinced that a supernatural being had gotten the child on her. She would thrash in her sleep and moan about hellfire and a bird-headed demon, but deny it when awake.

They'd been happy about her pregnancy, especially after the accident. Her car had skidded off the road in an ice storm. Motorists had found her wandering around, disoriented, bruised, but not badly hurt. No problems or complications with the baby.

A little girl. Who became a boy. Then a girl.

He wanted his child to have a friend. Helen dimmed the strangeness in the child's eyes.

_I don't care what sex wins out. I want a child I can talk about._ Preferably the girl with good grades. Female mechanical engineers weren't unusual. And their child was on record as female.

* * *

His father was right. Helen _would_ ask, and he didn't ever want to lie to her again. His secret life was barrier enough.

_Give her up._

_ I can't._

Selfish, and he knew it.

They would grow up.

She already looked at him the way the woman in that movie looked at the man. But they were kids. Surely that didn't mean anything.

This _thing_ that happened to him could not happen forever. One of these years, he wouldn't change. He'd be one or the other.

What if it didn't stop?

He couldn't think _that_ far ahead.

He did what many people faced with difficult, painful decisions do: he put it off.

* * *

The year ended with no further adventures. Sean changed to Sían, and the Treils packed up and moved.

A month after that, police arrested some purported Irish Travelers for fraud and theft by deception. They claimed a cousin, Siobhan McTeague-Treil, had invited them to visit. As for the charges: those were mistakes. They were innocent.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

* * *

_In which the one who will be Berg Katse is recruited by Galactor._

_

* * *

_

Helen found him at their favorite spot on the mountain. "Sean? What's wrong?"

Oh, no. She was the one person he never wanted to manipulate. Still, he didn't have to actually lie to her. "My mother's dead."

"When?" She put an arm around him.

"Middle of last term. Traffic accident."

Had either persona ever felt anything for Siobhan except a dull dislike? When Sían heard the news, she'd felt a lightening of her chest and heart.

Mother's death had destroyed Father. No more time spent on engines and mechanical devices. The man came home and drank himself to sleep. Their fragile rapport had died with Siobhan. That was what he mourned.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Tire blow-out. According to the police, the car had lurched across the median into the path of a farm truck. No survivors.

"Thank you."

* * *

As they walked back to town, she said, "I was looking for you because there's a dumb rumor going around about you."

"What rumor?"

"That you're an Irish Traveler."

He'd never heard of them. "A what?"

"Dad says Travelers are con artists and criminals. Says it explains your folks moving every year."

"We're not criminals. We move because of Dad's job." He clenched his fists, forgetting he held her hand.

"Ow, Sean. Let go." When he did, she faced him. "I know that. It's wrong, but people say that. I thought you should know."

Damn, damn, damn!

The previous school year had started well. Sían had manipulated her way to a position to control the 'in' crowd of St. Louis Academy. They had expected her to show grief, and she had done so. She had discovered that she could use that to her advantage. The one bad thing about it was Father's shutdown.

He had hoped to have similar luck this year.

* * *

"The other kids are avoiding you," he said, two weeks into the term. It meant more time with her. He wanted her happy. "Did they do that last year?"

"No." She took his arm. "Don't worry about me. I'm okay."

He detected a hint of loneliness or sadness in her tone. Was she lying to him? She missed her friends, but it seemed too soon for that this year.

"Woo! Check out the lovebirds."

"Guess Treil isn't a faggot."

Who the hell - ? Three boys lounging against the swings, making faces at them.

"Don't mind them," Helen said. A bit louder: "They're just jealous that I'm with you."

Oh, so she _could_ play the girl-games. This could be fun. In the same tone: "Damn right."

"Come on," she whispered, "before I sock one of them." She sprinted off.

Grinning, he followed her.

"Yeah! Go, Sean!" someone yelled. (Not that any of them had any real idea of what they were saying.)

They darted around the back of the school, and were brought up short by a pair of legs sticking out of a basement vent window. The pants were caught on the window latch.

"Do you need some help?" Helen asked, kneeling beside the legs. She grinned at Sean, crouching across from her.

_I think he was breaking in_, he mouthed.

From inside, a small voice said, "I'm stuck."

"Mailer?" Helen asked. "It's Helen."

An even smaller voice: "Oh."

"We won't tell," she said.

"Stop moving," Sean told him. "You're caught on the window." He recognized John Mailer as a quiet boy who had hung at the edges of Helen's group of friends.

She gave one leg a playful poke. "When we say, you back out of there."

"Okay."

"Wait a second," Sean said. "He's a little too far in. That's also why he can't get out, aside from the pants. If he moves, he'll tip even further into the basement." Louder: "John, we'll have your legs. You won't fall."

With one on each leg, and Mailer pushing from inside, they pulled him back until he could wriggle out himself. The boy rolled over and sat up, looking into Sean's face.

Mailer's recent predicament made it hard for Sean to read the expression, but he thought the other boy looked at him a little too long and intently. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Mailer brushed at his clothes.

"What were you doing in there?" Helen asked.

"I wanted to look around. The door's always locked. I always hear machines and stuff."

Machines? Without thinking, Sean slipped through the window.

"Oh, damn." Helen crouched at the window. "Don't mention machines in front of him. Sean, get out of there."

Pipes and conduits of varying sizes connected with tanks or pump motors. As he looked around, the apparent tangle came clear to him, and he traced the cold water into the boiler, the hot water out of the boiler and to the pumps here to send it through the rest of the school. Pump motor connected to a pump in one direction, connected to a disconnect that was in turn fed from somewhere outside the room.

"Sean."

"Coming." He could have stayed longer. He climbed out.

"You and machines." Helen punched his arm. "Let's go, before someone finds us and we get into trouble."

* * *

Thus began another phase of his life. Mailer would seek him out, accompany him and Helen on their rambles, and even wait for him at the beginning or end of the school day. It was at once gratifying and unsettling.

If it hadn't been for the literature classes at St. Louis, and his own extracurricular reading, he would not have had the words to describe Mailer. The other boy was remarkably biddable, as if he'd turned over his life to Sean.

Mailer was also a thief and a trespasser. Getting stuck at school that day had been an accident; normally, he could be in and out with no obvious sign. He demonstrated on a different window.

His presence changed things with Helen, also. She was nice enough to Mailer, but not as welcoming as Sean had first thought. Was she jealous?

And why not? Her friends froze her out when he was around. For whatever reason, she refused to drop him as a friend.

_I know how they think. I can work them._ Make things right with Helen. She should have more friends than a freak and a thief. If she had her friends back, it would take the pressure off him, now and in the future.

At St. Louis, a few words in the right ears had made Sían the shadow queen of the class. Who among the 'in' crowd wanted anyone to learn about rocky grades or relatives with wandering hands? There was dear little Sían, with the right advice and the zipped lips, to talk to about everything.

This was a larger, more volatile, effort. Helen had attracted fellow students with her personality. He didn't have that sort of pull (and wasn't sure he ever would). Lots of ears to whisper in, to get the ball rolling, yet he could not be seen to do so. Each child had to believe it was his or her idea to return to Helen.

* * *

Helen's parents no longer allowed him to visit, unless Mailer or another was with him. They had decided he was a bad influence. Wisely, they did not forbid her to see him, since that would awaken her rebellious streak, choosing instead to limit their time together. She could not see him on the weekends. They were playing it safe.

At the same time, her father's work required him to travel. Sean suspected that this had a lot to do with his not seeing her on weekends. Helen's mother was a bit over-protective.

Irish Travelers didn't travel the way his family traveled, he knew. Over the decades, they and the Romani had adapted to a changing world, but permanent addresses were still rare. Simply moving between the same two addresses in the same two cities was not how either people worked.

* * *

The rumors should not have influenced his teachers, but of course they did. He'd become adept at reading people, and had a good understanding (for his age) of human nature. Once something becomes common knowledge, it becomes a fact (regardless of truth or fiction) in many minds.

Enough people repeated the rumors to make them seem factual. His past behavior, seen in this new light, became evidence the rumors were true.

Only the gymnastics instructors and school doctor actively disputed the stories, he discovered. As always, he underplayed his skills, but the instructors saw that he never had to get back into practice. The doctor found him healthy, perfectly normal for a boy his age. This meant he was not on the road, taking lessons from stolen textbooks and money under false pretences.

He had no idea that one of the instructors, and the doctor, worked for Galactor.

* * *

His main worry was that Helen would figure out what he was doing. He had no idea what he would do if she did, or how she would react.

The ridiculous story about him being an Irish Traveler became another tool. Some kids could be shamed into returning to Helen ('You're a fine friend, leaving her all alone while people tell lies!'), while others responded to the seeming rebelliousness of acquaintance with a crook or of annoying their parents.

* * *

The wrench in the works wasn't Helen, but a boy named Gunnar Hellmann. Once he saw Helen's group of friends re-forming, he tried to disrupt it. The idea that the weird, probably faggot, Treil kid might be liked was too much for him. (Like many boys his age, he had no real comprehension of the meaning of the insult: he had heard people use the word, and so he used it himself.)

Life was simple: you were either beaten, or the one doing the beating. Twerps like Treil and Mailer were for beating. When they dared poke their heads up, you beat them back into place.

At first, he'd thought Treil was hiding from him. The second year the freak was at school, he realized that Treil wasn't hiding, but tricking him. If anyone else knew it, Hellmann's control over the schoolyard (such as it was) would disappear.

Mailer was easy prey. Stupid kid couldn't even fight. Now, though, he hung around Treil, who stood up for him and helped him escape. Maybe one day Mailer would stand on his own two feet. _Can't have that._

Yet, Treil wouldn't fight. It was always words and tricks, making people look stupid.

Some bullies would have given up on Treil and his friends, using face-saving excuses. Hellmann wasn't that clever or sensible.

* * *

"What's a 'faggot'?" Mailer asked, one Saturday in the middle of the school year.

"In England, a piece of wood," Sean said. "In other countries, it's an insult." How much should he tell the other boy? "It means a guy isn't manly."

"I don't understand."

They were sprawled in game-chairs in Mailer's bedroom. Because Sean could kick ass in most computer games, they were online in a multi-player role-playing game. More variables than he could account for.

Without Helen on weekends, the two boys spent a lot of time in each other's company. The other boy had even less of a home life than Sean, which accounted for some of his personality quirks. It was a sad, if useful, state of affairs to be the role model and protector of a peer.

"To some people, the boys on the baseball and football teams are manly. Boys in gymnastics are not manly."

"You're not a faggot. I might be."

"What have I told you about the stupid things people say?"

With the assorted claims and counter-claims around him, Sean had gotten good at looking things up on the Internet, even things supposedly off-limits to children. He had a good idea what adults meant when they tossed around terms that children repeated.

For this reason, he wasn't too upset by second-hand accusations, but worried that teachers and others in authority would take them seriously. That could mean complications in his life.

So, at an age when most of his classmates joked about having girlfriends and dropped various sexual terms into insults without knowing what those words meant, he had at least an academic grasp of their meaning.

He couldn't figure out if they described Mailer, and he was sure that Mailer himself could not answer the question."

"I get mad when people insult you."

"You must learn to pick your battles. We can't fight everyone, and we don't have to. Why fight when you can turn your enemies every which way?"

"Is that what you've been doing?"

"Of course."

"Same with the other kids? Helen's friends?"

Mailer had caught on.

"That's my present to her. So don't say anything." He wasn't certain if Mailer could understand his reasoning.

"You have her to yourself, or you did. Why would you let anyone else get close?"

"I want her to be happy." It wasn't good for anyone to have only one other person in life. He also wanted to delay or prevent dealing with his unique problems and their effects on the relationship.

_No matter how hard I try, I don't get it_, Mailer thought. How could Helen want or need anyone else when she had Sean? Especially when he looked at her in _that_ way, as if they were the only people on Earth. He'd been the recipient of that look a few times, usually whenever Sean wanted to drive home a point.

"What you're doing will make her happy?"

"I think so." Sean turned that blazing blue gaze on Mailer. "It won't work if she knows what I'm doing. So don't even _hint_ at it."

"Not so much as a breath."

* * *

All attempts to intimidate the other children failed. Hellmann could not understand the failure of tried-and-true tactics. The idea that his targets would band together without seeming to was alien to his thinking.

You threaten to beat someone up for not doing what you want. The spineless little twit obeys. That's how it works.

But then, Hellmann hadn't met anyone like Sean Treil. Most children weren't so devious, even the clever ones. Sean changed the rules without telling anyone.

Time to put things right in his world.

* * *

"He's exceeded my expectations," the doctor typed. "Without anyone becoming aware of it, he has attained control over at least a quarter of his peers. Even his enemies obey him. The one exception is a thug named Hellmann."

"I will say that Treil's actions are motivated by his friendship with Helen Geary. Whatever his true reasons for his behavior, his feelings towards her have awakened his innate leadership capacities. I recommend allowing this relationship to continue, as it has borne such fruit." He looked it over, made a few changes, and hit 'send.'

* * *

No Mailer, this Saturday. The boy often waited for him, but not always. He wondered what Mailer did on those days. Break into buildings? Steal? Both?

Sean's father still mourned his mother. He'd read that some people never recovered from the death of a spouse or child, even when they had other family.

The apartment was too small to contain Howard's sorrow, which was why he spent so much time away after a fruitless first month of coaxing.

The library was one of his usual haunts. If he was lucky, Helen would be there. Otherwise, he would roam the stacks.

No Helen. He dropped his eclectic armload at one of the tables. The librarians were used to his reading choices, except for one who thought Walt Whitman wrote gay porn. _The louder you yell, the more interested I am._

Right now, he was reading _Paradise Lost_. He figured out that Milton had made Satan a majestic figure to explain to readers the attraction of sin. Satan and the other fallen angels were not weak-minded, whiny, rationalizing losers, but a credible threat (or so _they_ thought) to the divine order. Adam was willing to give up paradise for Eve (who was not worth the sacrifice).

An assistant saw him reading and tried to interest him in more age-appropriate books. He smiled politely, and tactfully explained that he found the one-dimensional characters boring.

After _Paradise Lost_ and _Paradise Regained_, he started on, of all writers, William Faulkner. That writer's prose style proved a bit much for him (really, it was more suited to being stuck in quarantine for an unspecified period), so he moved on to Steinbeck.

He didn't leave until the library closed in the early evening.

* * *

The next day, two detectives from the juvenile division came to the apartment. Dugan and Iverson. Just like the ones on television, they didn't tell him what was wrong, but asked him what he knew about Mailer.

"What happened?"

"Why do you think anything happened?" Iverson replied.

"You wouldn't be here unless he was hurt or something."

Dugan hiked an eyebrow. "You're right. We'd like to know where you were yesterday."

"At the library. All day." What had happened to Mailer?

"_All_ day?"

"Yes. I got there maybe a half-hour after it opened, and left when it closed."

"Any witnesses?"

"The librarians and a library assistant." He made a show of remembering their names. "Her name was Zuckerman."

Iverson asked, "You and Mailer pretty close, Sean?"

"We're friends."

"What do you mean by that?"

_Just what I said, you dirty-minded jerk._ "You know. Help each other with homework, go to movies or the library, explore the woods." Break into interesting basements and rooms. "Run from Hellmann and his gang."

"There's a girl with you two, sometimes? Helen Geary."

"Yes." Where was this going? _Leave her out of this!_ "She's been my friend for a while." _Did something happen to her, too?_

"You ever fight with Mailer?"

"No. He's not much of a fighter."

"Not even about Helen?"

_Huh? What? Oh._ "No. No. It's hard to explain, sort of. He likes her, but not that way. He doesn't make friends easily."

The detective pursed his lips, pretending to think over the propriety of his next question. "He ever do anything to make you nervous? Or Helen jealous?"

"No." _Stop playing around._ Putting the right amount of distress into his tone, he said, "Please, tell me what's happened. Are they okay?"

Dugan quieted his partner with a gesture. "Mailer was beaten badly yesterday."

"How bad? Is he in the hospital?"

"He should be home, now."

_Then what are you doing here? Ask_ him _who beat him._ "There's a kid named Gunnar Hellmann. He gives us a hard time."

"We'll look into it. Thank you for your time."

After they left, his father said, "You'd better make sure people can vouch for you from now on. Won't take them long to find the real attacker. Next time, you might not be so lucky." A long swig. "Same for when you're - you know. Just in case."

* * *

On Monday, Sean and Helen met each other at lunch. "The police came over," she said. "Started right in with questions. 'Dumb cop/Smart cop' must be the way they work now."

"What did they tell you?"

"Mailer was beaten up. The stupid cop kept trying to trick me into accusing you."

"He tried to trick a confession out of me."

She glared across the cafeteria towards Hellmann. "If it wasn't them, who was it?"

"Helen." Ignoring everyone else, and their possible comments, he took her head in his hands. "Helen, don't get caught alone anywhere. I have a bad feeling." _I cannot lose you._ He stared into her eyes, feeling the universe contract around them. "Don't go anywhere alone."

"I won't."

* * *

After school, Helen went over to the Mailers'. "I'm here to see John." Rather odd to call him by his first name; he'd always seemed like just 'Mailer.'

"Sure. He could use a friend. A _real_ friend," Mrs. Mailer said.

_Now she gives a damn about her son._

Mailer was curled up on his bed, staring blankly at the television. When he saw her, he brightened, his gaze shifting to look over her shoulder.

"Sean couldn't come." _He's outside because he knows your parents won't let him in._ It hurt that Mailer wasn't happy to see her.

"Oh. Well, thanks for coming over."

"I was worried about you." His face had more bruises than pink skin.

"I'm fine."

"No, you aren't." She looked him right in the eye. "What happened? Who did this?"

He turned away and curled up.

"Tell me. The police made me think they suspect Sean."

"But that's not true!"

"Then why didn't you tell them?"

"I'd have to tell what happened." Such misery and humiliation in his tone that she wanted to pound Hellmann into the ground.

"Who hurt you? Just tell me that."

"Hellmann and his buddies."

What a non-surprise. The only idiots who hadn't accepted that Sean could outsmart them at every turn.

* * *

Wednesday, Hellmann and his little gang strutted onto school grounds. Several very large members of the rugby team surrounded them. Words passed between them, then fists.

Sean leaned against the schoolyard fence, watching without seeming to watch. People were so easy to manipulate. All he had to do was find the right combination of words and ears.

He had a plan for Hellmann, if the police couldn't handle it.

* * *

The investigation stalled. The Mailers' complaint against Sean didn't stand up to reality. Not liking their son's choice of friends was trumped by three librarians and an assistant (plus security camera images).

There were no decent forensics at the scene, or on Mailer, nothing to indict Hellmann or anyone else.

* * *

Mailer was back at school the next week, and this time as good as glued himself to Sean. No matter how many times the rugby, Amerisian-style football, and wrestling teams pounded on Hellmann, Mailer was still terrified of the gang. No amount of direct or indirect questioning would elicit what had happened.

_Soapy, dirty water swirling down a drain. Skin scrubbed almost raw._ Tears, shame, and anger.

"He won't tell _you?_" Helen asked. "It must be bad."

Brad Dixon had made her nervous, two years ago.

He knew now that Sían could have been hurt _much_ worse than had happened. That Helen could have been hurt the same way. That it could still happen to them both if Hellmann remained alive.

_I need a plan_.

Another 'accident' was out of the question. Authorities were still serious about the abandoned buildings, and even if they weren't, two fatal accidents in almost as many years might seem suspicious.

Hellmann was the linchpin of his little gang. No Hellmann, no gang. The members would be even more vulnerable to the anger of their former victims.

Police would suspect him. His plan had to throw them off the trail.

It was a good thing that printed books still existed. He could find what he needed without leaving an electronic record.

Keeping his plan secret was harder, with Mailer a near-constant presence and Helen's refusal to hide from the threat Hellmann presented.

He had a target date: just before his change to Sían. Nobody would suspect a boy in the process of moving. If he chose his method properly, nobody would suspect a child, period.

* * *

Besides planning a murder, Sean tried to help Mailer out of his funk. But Mailer wasn't Helen, already strong and resilient, needing only coaxing to recover from a trauma. He had no reserves to draw on, nothing to work with except his devotion and obedience.

Mailer did try. He knew he was a drag on Sean, and that the next school-year would see Sean elsewhere. _I'll have to stand by myself._

With Sean, everything was right and good. Without Sean, the same activities lacked color and life. Helen was no substitute.

* * *

The obvious parts of the plan:

A weekend. Helen would be with her parents.

A basement storage area in a building closed on the weekend.

Not so obvious:

Weapon and method.

_If I knew what he did to Mailer, I'd know for certain what not to do._ He could not do anything that might make the police suspect him.

Whatever method and weapon he chose, the supplies had to be portable. He would not have the time or safety to use found objects, as he had at the old plant, or to collect and conceal what he needed. The things could be found, or he could be seen.

He read true-crime accounts and the memoirs of behavior profilers. He even analyzed a few famous movies and stories for ideas (none of which seemed to apply).

And how to get Hellmann alone to chase him? He didn't need all six of the gang.

The answer came when he wasn't thinking about it: find Hellmann and challenge him. No friends on either side.

When was Hellmann unattended?

He used his classmates. A casual question here, and a comment there, and he soon learned everything he needed to know this year. The most important: Hellmann's friends would be at camp during summer break.

The weapon came while he was reading a 20th Century Ameris profiler's memoirs. A dumb teenage punk hadn't thought through his crime, and ended up grabbing a pencil to stab an old woman. Because of the odd choice of weapon, police initially thought an ex-convict was the culprit.

He knew about pointed objects. Scratch awls, wood screws and self-drilling screws, nails, decorative spikes on metal fences - all potentially dangerous.

A simple weapon. Prisoners made weapons of all sorts of objects. All he had to do was pick a material and/or object that nobody would link to a child who had never been in legal trouble.

That eliminated the most obvious items. No pencils, pens, PDA styli, meat or candy thermometers; no combs, brushes, or toothbrushes; no nails, spikes, or sharpened bits of metal. An icicle would have been a good choice for winter. Sharp, and easily destroyed.

_Wait. I'm over-thinking this. Most kids my age don't know these things._

He needed something so common that most people would not consider it as a weapon. Something a boy might play around with, should he be found with it. No special work needed (or not so much).

The rest of the plan was easy.

* * *

Hellmann squinted through swollen eyelids at the blurred shape before him. What had happened? He'd chased that creepy Treil kid into the school basement, and then - nothing. Why was he lying down? Why couldn't he move his hands? What was cutting his mouth?

"Welcome back."

Treil. He tried to focus on the lithe figure.

"Idiot." A cold smirk crossed his captor's face. "All of you."

'All of you'? What did he mean by that? Hellmann tried to ask, but the gag cut the edges of his mouth, and whatever was shoved in his mouth choked him.

"Forget about calling for help." The boy gracefully crouched beside him. "And don't bother begging."

He talked of begging! _Untie me, and I'll show you who'll beg._

"You jerks think that you're so great, yet you're so easily led. All I had to do was show my face, needle you a bit, and you followed me."

And now what? He started shouting threats around the gag.

Sean looked down at Hellmann. _Is he brave, or so stupid as to think I'll untie him because he swears to beat me to a pulp?_

"Shut up, jerk." He knelt on Hellmann's lower legs. "You think you're king of the world. Call me a freak and a sissy. That, I could let slide." He showed the homemade stiletto.

"You did something to my friend. He won't tell me what it was. And I think you have plans for Helen."

The flash of cruel cunning was all the evidence he needed. "I think your gang will disappear without you. Once you're gone, they'll tell what they know." He smiled, and Hellmann turned pale. "Good-bye."

Two stabs, to the femoral artery in each leg. He watched as Hellmann's pants legs were saturated from the inside.

* * *

As Hellmann bled out, Sean took a comfortable seat on a box. Funny, but this was not as repulsive as he had thought it would be.

So-called normal people were fools. They always underestimated him (or her, depending on the year). All of them could be manipulated, fooled, and led by anyone with the skill and nerve.

A brief jiggle by Hellmann got his attention. Nothing much. The boy was going limp. Even if a full paramedic crew arrived now, with all eight pints of blood, there was no chance to save him.

The bladder and bowels gave way. Yech. Time to leave.

He slipped out of the basement, and carefully locked the door behind him. He'd left nothing to reveal that a mere child had lured Hellmann there. No usable fingerprints on the door. Hell, the maintenance crew would put their own prints on it the next morning.

Around the corner, and he ran into Mailer. "Why?" the other boy asked, pale-faced and short of breath.

Oh, hell. "What?"

"I saw you through the window."

What was Mailer doing peering in the window? "Really?"

"I saw him chase you. Then I saw everything else."

_You watched all that?_ "Why didn't you run away?"

"I couldn't believe it. I thought you were just going to scare him. I know he made our lives hell, but you didn't have to kill him."

Poor, dumb, loyal Mailer. "Let's not stand here. Someone might see us. Come on."

"We could have done something else to him. Scared him off." Mailer's head swiveled like a weather-vane. He might as well shout that there was something wrong.

"What could we have done to scare him that much? Even if we did, he'd just run to his parents and tell them a lie that would have police at our doors. Then where would we be?"

"You would have thought of something. You're good at that. You can be as mean as a girl."

_I spend half my life as a girl._ "Well, this time I couldn't think of anything. You won't say what he did to you. Whatever it was, I think he had his eye on Helen."

"You're saying it's my fault?"

"No! I'm saying that I killed him because he scared you into not talking. He wasn't _ever_ going to stop."

"It's because you're about to move again, right? I won't see you again for a year. You wanted to get this over with."

_No, you dummy: it's because no-one will suspect a kid in the middle of packing up and moving of doing anything this elaborate._

"Nothing else would have worked. All the other bullies stopped hassling us because they have more than two working brain cells. They knew they'd lose, in the end, so they picked easier targets." _What am I going to do?_

"I won't tell anyone."

He studied his companion. Big, honest brown eyes, a face as readable as a picture book. Right now, perhaps for a long time, Mailer would not say anything to anyone. But he would, eventually, quite possibly before the year was out. Mailer might be a thief, but he didn't have the stomach for the truly necessary acts. He couldn't kill, or even injure, in cold blood. That same weakness would send him to authorities.

"Dad's been talking about sending me to boarding school. I know that means we can't hang out together, but it means that you won't have to worry about me telling anyone."

Uh-uh. One reason he even had Mailer as a companion was the boy's willingness to follow his orders. At boarding school, Mailer could come under another's influence. "Mailer, listen to me."

"Look, really, I won't say anything. Okay?"

Damn it. He had to get rid of, or silence, Mailer, somehow. There was no time to plan. Tomorrow, he would be in the family car and on his way. People knew that he and Mailer were friends, and it would not take much for them to suspect that he was responsible for, or knew something about, Mailer's death. Even mere idle talk would be dangerous to him.

Something stung his neck.

Blackness.

* * *

_Where am I?_ He'd been walking down the street. He remembered that much. Walking with Mailer, trying to think what to do about him. His head felt thick.

He slouched in a chair, held up by the back and arms. Lights glared against his eyelids, forcing him to drop his head before he opened his eyes. They refused to focus.

"Look at me." A commanding voice, devoid of kindness. "Look at me."

He obeyed, and almost leaped behind the chair. All disorientation left him.

A giant, eagle-like face peered from a flame-colored background. Against the red-orange-yellow shifting ground, the face looked bluish, hard, unyielding. An avatar, like a computer game, or was it real? No, it couldn't be real, not with that flat, hard, stare. "Who are you?" he asked, hoping his voice did not quaver.

"Your tongue could not pronounce my name. Call me Leader X."

For real?

The great bird-head shifted position. "Leave us."

Guards he hadn't noticed snapped to attention and filed out.

"There are things they should not hear," Leader X observed, fixing him with hard, unchanging, yellow eyes.

"Such as?" He wanted to curl up under that gaze.

"I know you." In that same harsh, inhuman voice, Leader X told his birth name: "Sían Treil."

Burning with too many emotions, he nodded.

"You will change sex within the week. Do not protest. I know your name, and your life. I know that, two years ago, you killed four boys who humiliated you when they discovered your female form. A clever trap, one worthy of an adult. Since then, you have taken action against others who might come too close to learning your secrets. Not once have you been suspected, even in jest. Your own parents never suspected you."

The words burst out before he could stop them: "Don't talk to me about my parents."

Anger whipcracked across the room. "Remember your place, child."

How he avoided collapsing and whimpering, he never knew. "Sorry."

Now amusement. "You are not sorry." Serious again. "I have plans for this planet. My people have watched, and watched for, humans with the qualities I need. You are one of those people. You have the potential to rise in our organization."

"What organization?"

"Galactor."

How cheesy could it get? "Is that another word just for us humans?"

"It is. We want your world. We shall have it. I think you agree that it needs new masters."

"If you're from another planet, why haven't you taken over already?"

"There are better ways to take over than with armies and weapons. We are here already, and we have made headway in our chosen method."

Other ways than armies? "What do you mean?"

"Your father works for us. When she lived, so did your mother."

Yeah, right.

"Galactor owns and controls many companies and corporations. Your father works for one of them."

Certain mysteries of his life became clear. _Of course_ his parents worked for Galactor. How else could they move between the same two cities yearly and no-one say a word about it? His father said it was necessary for his job, but why should the company provide money for yearly moves for the whole family? In all the years of moving, he never heard complaints about the cost. That was the one thing for which his father could not resent him. "I see."

"It is fortunate that your father does so. It makes it much easier for us to help you."

"Help me, how?"

"To train you, to enhance your potential as a leader in our organization. We can help you with your transformations."

"Please, don't taunt me." Anything except insult.

"I do not taunt. You should not be allowed to waste away, hiding in shame from creatures who cannot rise above their petty animal natures. You are a superior being. You should take your place in the world."

Had he been older, he might have been suspicious, might have refused. "Whatever you want of me, you can have."

"Excellent." The approval sent a warm wave through him.

He thought of Mailer. "What about Mailer? The kid with me?"

"He is here. He was regrettably talkative."

"And?"

"There will be no trace of Hellmann in the basement. No-one will ever know what happened to him. What should we do with your friend?"

Yes. Mailer had been his friend, in a way. "He was a loyal companion. Whatever you do to him, make it quick, and painless." Would this ruin his chances in Galactor?

"Loyalty should be rewarded."

"Thank you, sir." What about Helen? "I have other friends."

"They do not know what you did. They are no threat to you."

Good.

"It is time for you to return home. In time, your father shall hear from us, through one of our many agents. Persuade him to approve."

He looked around the room. Leader X had a harsh voice, but was now preferable to his drunken father. "What will they ask of him?"

"Attendance in special classes. Do not worry about your transformations. Those shall be accommodated. No one shall ever know."

"Thank you, sir." _Do I sound like a suck-up?_

"One more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"I will not shame you with the names you currently use. When you take your rightful place in Galactor, you shall be Berg Katse."

A new name, devoid of shameful associations. He would prove worthy of it. Disguising his new-found devotion, he said, "I thank you again."

"One of my agents will take you home."

* * *

Only about three hours had passed since Hellmann's murder. Clutching his new name and future tightly in his heart, he walked up the stairs to the apartment. His father had already packed. He was just drunk enough to not stir when Sean tip-toed carefully past him, but not enough to be asleep. "Tomorrow morning at eight," he said.

"Okay."

He felt the first stirrings of the change. In a few hours, he would be in agony. Anything to stop that pain.

The change as an advantage? What advantage?


End file.
